Blood and Kisses(18)

Now safely chained, the last vestige of sanity slipped from his eyes. The heated glow of bloodlust took its place. He fought against the chains, his face a mask of torment. “Go!” he snarled through his emerging fangs.

Thalia shook her head and ran from the room. She slammed the door behind her and pressed the hidden button he had showed her earlier. A soft hum followed by a loud click, announced that the latch was now reinforced by several steel rods spread evenly throughout the plane of the door. Insurance should Gideon, in his madness, snap the heavy chains.

A tear eluded her control and ran down her cheek. She dashed it away with an impatient hand. What good was she? She couldn’t even offer her blood to spare him hours of agony as he awaited the setting of the sun.

Thalia took a slow, deep breath. She might not be able to feed Gideon, but she was still the Champion and a damn good private investigator. In her rush to get him home, it was possible she had missed some vital clue that could lead her to the killer. Detective Cole hadn’t mentioned another murder. Strange that no one had found the bodies yet, but she couldn’t pass up the opportunity to examine the crime scene.

A thump sounded inside Gideon’s bedroom, followed by a moan that raised the hairs on the back of her neck. His chains rattled. She closed her eyes, summoning her strength. She hated to leave him, but there was nothing more she could do.

“Spirit,” she called. “Come on. We’re going out.”

One of the bodies was missing.

Thalia squatted over the remaining body in the alley. She’d covered her hair with a cap and wore a cheap plastic coverall, intended for house painters, over her clothes. Latex gloves shielded her hands.

There had been two bodies here last night. Where had the other one gone?

It was Saturday and traffic was light, but she masked her presence with a small spell. Anyone looking her way would see a person, but her shape and size would be blurry and indistinct. She would have preferred to use an invisibility spell, but she would need every bit of energy she could get when it came time to release Gideon.

Spirit sat a distance away, careful not to contaminate the crime scene with his own unique hairs.

The victim lay face down in her nest of garbage. Thalia flipped her over. “Oh, my God.” It was Kimmy Simpson, her throat slashed. The wound was deep, gaped open like some gory double mouth.

She had known this might happen, but confronted with the reality, her hands trembled.

The rogue had killed a witch.

“Oh, Kimmy. Why didn’t you stay with Ashley and Maureen?”

Tears pricked her eyelids. Their young lives would never be the same. No one would ever call them the three musketeers again.

She took a deep breath, forcing her mind back to business and stood. “Do you smell anything?”

Spirit’s chocolate eyes narrowed and his ears flattened, his coat bright chestnut orange in the brilliant sunlight. He scented the hot summer air, turning his head from left to right, nostrils flaring.

“Blood. Not Gideon’s, not the woman’s.” He paused. “And something else. Decay.”

Thalia nodded, remembering the overpowering stench that had accompanied the rogue the previous night. Nothing like Gideon’s intoxicating scent, it must be a by-product of the Claiming.

“Can you follow it?”

“Of course.” Spirit’s voice was curt, his lithe body stiff, as if he were insulted that she even had to ask. He trotted toward the corner and stopped, looking back over his shoulder. “Coming?” he said arrogantly, and she could see a glimpse of the mage he’d once been. She snuffed the beginnings of a smile and followed.

They walked for several miles. Thalia began to get winded. A drop of perspiration ran down the back of her neck, and she resisted the impulse to stop and remove her coveralls.

Their journey took them into a neighborhood riddled with abandoned houses. Yards filled with junk guarded structures on the verge of collapse. They seemed to lean toward one another as if in search of support. Children played in the street and scuffled on the bare dirt of the verge, kicking up clouds of dust with their sneakers. The owners of the few occupied houses watched silently as Thalia and Spirit went past, the spell still in effect.

The late evening sun was low now, battling through the gaps between houses and reflecting off broken windows. Red, just like Gideon’s eyes had been when she’d last seen him.

Gideon.

She shuddered as she remembered the moans and pleas coming from behind the locked door as she’d gathered her things to leave. That heavenly voice begging her to release him, to let him feed. To give him her blood, no matter what the cost.

If she freed him in person, he would fall on her like a wild beast. But if she weren’t present, he might attack the first person he saw, perhaps even kill him.

She would have to be there. She prayed her powers were strong enough to control him until he was sated and his reason returned.

“The trail ends here.” Spirit placed a white paw on the first of the dusty gray boards that led up to a slumping front porch. Thalia glanced up at the house, which must have once been white. Now its siding sagged like the skin of an elephant, pulling away from the exterior walls and leaving its boarded-up upstairs windows looking like a pair of droopy eyes.

“We’ll have to come back.” She shivered, suddenly aware of the imminent approach of sunset. There was no time. They had to return to Gideon’s house immediately. “Let’s go.”

“I’ll meet you there later. I have something to do.” Spirit sped off, nails clicking on the concrete. She sent a puzzled look after him, then sighed. It looked like she’d have to go to Gideon’s alone.

The question was, did a greater danger await her there?

He watched from the shadows, a prisoner of the light that still illuminated the sky, as the Champion and the dog separated. The Champion looked up at the house. Come in. Come in, he urged. He shuddered with perverse excitement. Was it possible his time was now at hand?

She placed a foot on the porch.

Yes.

He could already see Gideon groveling before him. Already hear his pleas.

She bent over, tightened her shoelaces, then stood and, with a last look at his window, turned to go.

Noooooo.

He fought the impulse to slam his hands against the wall, to roar his rage to the malicious sky. His hands clenched reflexively. He needed something to throttle.

Perhaps, he shouldn’t have been so hasty in disposing of his little puppets when they’d failed to lure his enemy to him as he’d planned. Oh well, there was always more where they came from.

He smothered the last embers of his fury. As much as he thirsted to vent his ire, he couldn’t risk drawing attention to himself.

Not yet.

His anger awakened a different kind of thirst. He glanced out the window. Damn sun. He put a hand on his chest and realized his shirt was stiff with blood. Spray from the little witch. He raised the fabric to his nose. It didn’t smell like poison. He sucked the fabric into his mouth. His saliva released the dried blood into his mouth. He closed his eyes. It didn’t taste like poison. He swallowed. The mixture of blood and saliva hit his stomach like a bomb filled with shrapnel. He bent over in agony, his body wracked by cramps so forceful they made him wretch. Sweat beaded his forehead and rolled down his checks. His empty stomach heaved continuously until he thought he might come apart. Time lost all meaning. Finally, he lay spent on the floor. Panting, he wiped the sweat from his eyes with a shaking hand. If only a tiny amount of witch blood could do that to him, what might happen to a vampire who ingested more? He shook again, clutching his middle and the sounds of his laughter filled his ears.



Gideon was in a boat on a vast ocean. An ocean of blood. Ripe and sweet. He could hardly wait to take a gulp; he wanted to dive in and swim in the heady stuff. He stretched a cupped hand over the side and filled it with the precious liquid, gleaming ruby-red all around him. He lifted it to his parched lips.

Water.

“No!” His own voice woke him and he lay in the bed panting, still chained, the sheets sweat-damp beneath him. He licked his cracked lips. The thirst was so terrible he’d only been able to sleep for short stretches before nightmares pried him from that small comfort. In his waking moments, he strained against his restraints, exhausting himself in his efforts to break free.

“Thalia.” He shouted her name to the empty air, his voice husky from overuse, but he knew it was no use. She had left hours earlier. He had heard her go.

The house was devoid of life. Devoid of the only thing he needed. Blood.

His famished body told him that sunset was imminent, but what good would that do him? He had made sure that even at top strength he could not break the chains. He was at her mercy.

Fury raged within him, overturning the scrap of sanity brought by wakefulness, and the monster screamed. The sound echoed through the house like the cry of a raptor against steep canyon walls.

She had abandoned him. Left him alone to wallow in pain.